An Opera: The Other Side of the Looking Glass
by Donna Aminta of the Black Rose
Summary: Opening night, the curtain rises on what Christine thinks is just another performance of Foust.  Little does she know…
1. Chapter 1

An Opera: The other Side of the Looking Glass

Disclaimor:

All Phantom related characters do not belong to me, but the ideas and such are entirely my own.

Author's note:

This is something that is very different from the fic that I submitted recently. However, it's one that I'm equally proud of. I'm posting parts one and two and there will soon be a part three. Warning, this is not for those who cannot handle sexuality as that is the basis of the story. It also looks into the dynamics of a power exchange relationship, and is heavy with exhibitionist and voyeuristic tendencies. So, if you can't handle that, please, for your sake, do not read because I did warn you. Otherwise, read, review, and have fun. This will be Erik and Christine as you've not yet seen them.

Summary:

Opening night, the curtain rises on what Christine thinks is just another performance of Foust. Little does she know…

Part one:

Overture

Darkness had fallen on the outside world, as she heard the sound of the single bell that would call her to him. It had been days, so many days, and she was beginning to think that he had no further use for her. She went quickly being careful never to raise her eyes, for fear that they would meet his. Knowing that, though her Maestro was a gentle creature, any intentional flaw in her submission would cost her greatly.

She knelt as she approached him, careful not to scrape her knees against the cold stone of the cellar's floor. 'Cold, so blessedly cold' she thought to herself as she waited. Rehearsals had been so hot under the gas lights, and she had never been so grateful for this single reprieve.

He circled her as a hunter its prey, those intense tawny golden eyes never leaving her. Blushing and shifting nervously, she knew there was nothing she could do but wait until he decided to conclude his inspection and speak. Several more moments, hours she thought was the better word, ticked by on the clock on his organ as she waited, until finally…

"You wish to make yourself mine then…" he purred as his voice of velvet and darkness surrounded her, but she knew the secret doubt and questioning hiding behind it.

"Oui Maestro, sul pour toi," she replied timidly.

"We shall see." Was his only response, and there was an edge of something, amusement maybe, hidden behind his words. She had never heard him speak to her that way, but it was her Erik, whose tendencies were unpredictable on the best of days, and slightly maddened on the worst.

He caressed her face lovingly, a gesture that made her shiver in pleasure and still the slightest fear, as he offered her his hand to rise.

"Come ma voix," he beckoned gently but there was a dare to disobey hidden behind the words, "Your bath is drawn, and you have a performance for which to prepare."

She followed him meekly into her apartments, still desperately searching for the trigger for this strange behavior but finding none. But when those gentle hands of leather and ice found their way to the laces of her gown and corset, all was lost. Thinking was for another, day, or month, or year. She didn't know nor did she care.

She laid her head against his chest, content simply to let his hands remain at her neck and sighed with the music of sweet bliss. He would have none of this for long, however, and with his perfection and need for her music coming once again to the forefront, he pulled back and began carefully to undress her.

"Non la Daae, non," he scolded sharply, there will be time for such after you sing for me this night.

"Oui Maestro," she answered sullenly, hoping against hope that maybe, for once, he would focus on her and not the music she gave him.

Suddenly though, she had no time to sulk over this fact. His lips were on her, kissing every inch of the flesh he exposed as he removed her garments, inch by blessed inch. She moaned low in her throat, needy, and still somewhat virginal to such ministrations as the phantom gave her now.

He circled in front of her rolling the nipple of one breast, then the other, gently between long and delicate fingers, and almost unconsciously she arched toward him writhing in every attempt to get closer.

He chuckled darkly, and if there was one sound that could bring her to the edge, other than his singing, it was that very thing.

"Maestro, may I… may I…" She trailed off, her delicate constitution still learning the comfort with such dark language.

"Yes?" he pressed, his hands still massaging her breasts with pain staking slowness.

The ache in her core was driving her to madness, and she knew that he knew it. She also knew that, until she said the words, there was no hope of getting anywhere with him.

She took a deep breath to steady herself and looked up into his unmasked face. "May I release for you?" she asked hardly above a whisper.

"No," he replied, and she could tell that his need was as great as her own. "You will not release until you sing."

He lifted her gently into his arms, lowering her into the Turkish bath she loved so dearly. She wanted to growl, to beg, to scream, to cry, anything to make him give her what she wanted, but she knew it would be in vain. There was a lesson here, which was that he was finished catering to the whims of a child. She was his now, she had chosen, and she would accept his control.

He laid her back in the heavily rose and lavender scented water, and with a gentleness she had seen in no mortal man, began to wash her golden curls humming quietly as he did so. Having finished what she would jestingly one day call his homage to her hair, he massaged her neck and shoulders, releasing the tension that he knew came with each day's rehearsals.

She sighed happily finally beginning to understand the nature of the love he had for her. What a fool she had been to even think she had made the wrong choice. This man would spend the rest of his life lavishing her. She only hoped that he would, in turn, allow her to truly serve him. Something told her, he was more than capable of doing so.

The massaging finished, he lathered his hands with a rose scented soap and began to wash her. She loved it when he refused to use the bar of soap, instead favoring this method. His touch was like nothing she'd ever felt, and she hoped to never tire of it.

"Where are you my songbird?" He asked as he watched her closely.

"I am not certain Maestro," she answered truthfully. "I still ache for you, and it feels as though I have done so for an eternity."

As if to emphasize that fact, his hands chose that exact moment to wash her secret places. She moaned, thrusting her hips down against his hand, and he stroked and teased as he spoke amidst her moans and sighs.

"Successfully complete the performance for me tonight, sing for me fully upon the stage, and you will have my collar and the release as many times as you wish it."

She broke from her revelry then, her moans growing silent.

"Maestro, it is only Foust. I have sung Foust a thousand times. What is different tonight?" she asked in bewilderment.

He gave a slight but knowing cackle as he helped her from the bath, and she realized that was the only answer she would receive. Sighing in frustration, she stood allowing him to dry her.

"Maestro, please, what is this?"

"Non ma voix, enough now."

And that was the end of it. He lifted the silver comb from her vanity and began to comb out her curls, and over her fell the usual trance that any contact with her hair created.

Her thoughts flashed briefly to something that seemed, almost, forbidden. The comb was replaced by his hands, and they were far from gentle. Instead, they tangled in her tresses, pulling her head back, forcing her to submit.

"Ma voix!" he scolded sharply, "I said come. It is time for you to be dressed."

She followed obediently and ashamed that she had allowed herself to stray from him so. What were these, the strange thoughts that had overtaken her consciousness so frequently of late? She would ponder them later. Now, she must prepare.

An hour later, she stood before one of the many full mirrors in the house, a simple deep red gown pooling down around her unshod feet and rubies at her throat, ears, and wrist. A veil of shear lace covered her hair, held in place by a ruby circlet.

"Ange, it seems so wrong for Foust, so sensual, not with the innocence needed," she remarked.

"Do you question," he asked coldly.

"Non Ange, non," she answered in haste as she took a step back from him.

"Good, now come. I will not have you miss your curtain."

End of part one


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimor:

Phantom characters are not mine.

Author's note:

Again, I repeat please do not read if you cannot handle power exchange relations, or heavy sexuality. You have been warned. If you can, have fun, and do review.

Part two:

Erik's Opera

I watched from the rafters as the curtain rose and you took your bow, pleased with the poise that you presented to your audience, neither knowing that the repertoire outlined in the program was about to be changed for this evening's performance. There would be no other actors, save you and myself, though I would not be seen until the third act of your gala…of a very different sort than that which was taught à la Conservatoire.

You stood there, waiting patiently for your cue to begin from the Maestro when the music began…a score not previously ever heard. I watched, as you subtly scanned the rafters for me—you knew I would be the only person who could possibly change the performance so suddenly—yet I was not to be seen. Instead, rope descended from the heights and, as though I were directly behind you—perhaps I was, perhaps it was by some unknown skill—and wrapped around your wrists and ankles, and stretched so that your wrists were held above your head and your legs spread.

I let you hang there, almost suspended from the rafters, moaning softly from the feel of the ropes. I watched, with the same intensity to memorize the picture as I remembered how I led you to this point: slowly bathing you with the sensual eroticism to bring you into the space for a performance, then denying you while I dressed you in the gown that I carefully picked out for you with the matching jewels and combed out your golden hair. I settled you on the stage to await your curtain before vanishing in the rafters.

I watched and listened, pleased, as you remained poised and elegant despite the whispers of the full house. I even laughed slightly as some began to leave, to question the program as they found they could not; none would leave, before my opera was completed. You moaned again, slightly louder and I turned my attentions back to you.

You gave a soft cry as one of my blades lightly pressed into your back and I ever so slowly began to release you from the gown you had only worn for scarcely an hour. With each inch of skin revealed, a gentle kiss was pressed to your soft, warm skin. The audience shifted uncomfortably and the whispers became louder as slowly, your bare flesh became exposed to them. A cackle broke from between my lips—echoing through the house and you moaned, hearing the amplified audience's reactions—as you tried to touch yourself, to soothe the growing need, but found only the unforgiving tautness of the ropes.

Eventually, the gown was removed enough to expose your breasts. I heard your moans and gasps as my lips, teeth, and tongue descended upon them, nipples erect from the sudden exposure to the cool theatre air. A few moans from amongst the audience were amplified to be heard by all, especially you, suspended on stage; your moans turning to growls of need. I lightly played against your breasts with one hand while the other slowly lowered your gown to settle around your hips, lips greeting each inch of skin with a gentle kiss.

In time, the gown was removed suddenly to your bound ankles and several members of the audience screamed in surprise and shock. There was pounding on both sides of the house doors, yet no entrance was gained. The pounding only served to act as a percussive accompaniment to my music as my lips and teeth and tongue fell upon your most secret lips. Your eyes begged to me as you keened. "Release for me!" I suddenly cried, my voice echoed through the house and you released your sweet nectar in a scream. The curtain dropped.

When the curtain rose next, you were still bound, though your gown completely removed and off the stage. A piece of silk lightly floated over your skin. I watched as you arched into the touch of the silk, lightly rubbing against it; more so when a piece of fur joined the silk. I chuckled to myself as you arched and purred like a cat and dangled a lock of unraveled rope over your skin. When you hissed in frustration of not being able to play with it, I released your arms. The audience was confused. It amused me. I then attached a small kitten's collar with a silver bell around your neck as I let your ankles be released also and watched you play with the rope.

From one of the wings of the stage rolled a large ball of red yarn. I watched you chase after it, back and forth across the stage as the audience watched, confused. Ever so slightly, I adjusted the angle of the ball's movement, never quite letting you catch it until it was mostly unraveled. When I did let you catch it, I used the distraction of your playing to raise the suspension I created out of the unraveling yarn. At first, you protested my trickery with yowls of displeasure, until I resumed my caresses against your skin with silk and fur. When I had you slightly more relaxed, I began to play on your skin, my fingers dancing across your flesh like the keys of an organ, but also the strings of the suspension like the strings of a harp.

Slowly, I intensified the playing of my instruments before suddenly stopping, running ice across the now warm flesh. Just when the ice became too much, drops of wax splashed upon your delicate skin as you cried out from the new sensations. With the same care as any artist would a magnificent painting, I layered the wax, creating a painting of my own with your torso as my willing canvas. When I was finished, I stepped back to admire my work. The curtain dropped.

The curtain rose for the last time. You were unbound and free of the wax. While the curtain was down, I slowly took a heated blade and peeled the wax from your skin, keeping it intact—a memory and a symbol of my crest to give to you. I stepped out from flames that formed off to the side, in black leather and velvet. The surprised reactions of the audience amused me—one would think they had never seen anyone walk through fire before; then again…they probably had not.

As soon as you saw the mere hint of my entrance, you ran to me. I ran my fingers through your hair as I praised you—allowing the audience to hear—for your performance and told you that you would be rewarded. A bed had been placed in the middle of the stage. I picked you up and carried you to it, gently sitting you on the end of the bed. I asked you to remove my clothing, leaving all but the cloak that I wore. I knew it would be something to heighten your pleasure, but also to soothe you.

When you finished, I commanded you to lie back, allowing me to inspect and appreciate your beauty with my hands, as well as my eyes. The wax had softened your delicate skin even more than it already was. At my command to show me your pleasure, you complied by teasing me on my hand. Licking, sucking, and caressing my hand…it was enough to nearly madden me.

I needed a small respite, though the next command would drive us both to madness…to pleasure yourself while I watched. I granted you permission to use your glass rod. Seeing you…taking yourself…writhing against the bed-sheets…hearing the reactions of the audience…watching your very body beg and plead for more, for release…

I could no longer restrain myself and you had earned the reward in its fullest. In one smooth motion, I replaced the rod with my own swollen member, watching your pleasure increase as you realized the change, seeing your need grow as you took yourself on me. Then suddenly, I seized the appearance of control from you and began taking you—deep, intense, almost as in a claiming. Simultaneously, we peaked the climax of pleasure and released; as your sweet nectar spilled over me, I filled your gentle flower with my seed.

I vanished us away to our space, tucking you into the safety under my cloak and your covers. The curtain dropped for the final time and I released the audience. They would never know the full truth of that performance.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimor:

Phantom characters are not mine, though, after this story, Erik may have his way with me any time he wishes.

Author's note:

I must apologize to all of you who are following this because it's taken me so long to update it. I needed to wait for the muses to speak.

I know I've said this, but I really need to make sure I say it enough if only for my sake. Do not, and I repeat do not read this if you cannot handle heavy sexuality and power exchange relationships. You have been warned. Otherwise, read, review, and have fun. There will be one more part, the collaring, to come.

An Opera: The other Side of the Looking Glass

Part Three:

Christine's interpretation

It had been nigh on an hour since my Maestro had left me upon the stage, waiting for my curtain to rise, and still, his instructions bewildered me.

"When the curtain rises, you will take your bows and the performance will begin."

I had attempted to question him, saying that such was not the way Foust opened, but he would have none of it. After all, when had I become so foolish as to question the Phantom? I should have known better.

"Five minutes until curtain Mademoiselle," I heard one of the stage hands call, and I nodded my thanks. Whatever it was that Erik was planning, I had very little time to think it over now.

The curtain rose then, and I bowed just as he told me. I noticed quickly the lack of set and grew even more confused.

The music, sweet, dark, filled with an emotion I did not know. Was this the way he felt the release I needed so terribly? For it could have been none but his hands who wrote it.

The trance fell over me quickly, so quickly that I could not even feel the ropes beginning to bind themselves around me, seemingly from nowhere. I wanted to cry out, to plead with him to stop, but if I did, I risked not only exposing him, but he would never keep me if I could not finish it to completion.

Hearing the screams of the audience set me even more at edge, because I knew him. I knew that he would never allow them to leave. As discreetly as I could manage, I scanned the rafters, and not finding him, I settled back to accept whatever was to be my fate.

The ropes were not entirely displeasing, I decided. Perhaps they could even be enjoyed. Slowly, ever so slowly I began to relax into them, a low moan escaping my lips unbidden.

Cold, something cold and metal was the next sensation I became aware of. A blade, the gold ornate one he favored by its feel, and the pressure was a bit more than I was expecting. I cried out, but, there was nowhere to which I could escape, and strangely enough, I had no wish to do so.

The audience's distress became even more so; as they tried to leave, tried to brake through the house doors in whatever way they could. I watched transfixed by the fact that he had held them all captive and only for me, for my pleasure.

This spurred a new string of thoughts and desires within me, and I must confess they frightened me a bit. If they were here only for me, could I not make them squirm, make them gasp and moan, and better yet, could I not take my pleasure from their reactions? Truly, had this been his intention the entire time?

I returned from my musings just in time to feel the delicate silk of my gown slowly being cut from my skin. Again, there was the desire to growl at him for destroying such a beautiful thing, but when warm lips replaced the cold fabric, I no longer complained.

I remembered this sensation from earlier in the night, one of the ones that had driven me to madness. Feather light kisses covering each inch of skin he pain stakingly exposed, careful never to mark me even slightly.

Raoul could never kiss me like this, I thought, and my mind once again returned to my choice. Oh God, Raoul, was he in the theater? Would Erik make me an object of his revenge? Never, I soothed myself Erik would never hurt me.

As though my Ange sensed my distraction, the kisses intensified forcing me to focus only on his ministrations. I moaned low forgetting the existence of the audience for the briefest of moments, and suddenly, I heard answering moans, clearly not his floating up to me from the house.

Did they want this? Did they enjoy it? Could people really be so crude, but truly, was it crude?

Their moans and wants were driving me to madness, I wanted to touch myself, to bring my pleasure in the ways that he had taught me, but as I tried to move and writhe, only the taught and unforgiving ropes greeted me. Again, that ever fateful reminder, I had no control of the evening's performance.

A sudden shock of cool air brushed over my nipples, hardening them immediately, and as I looked down to discover its source, I realized he'd exposed them to the audience. My moans and theirs seemed to swell together in chorus as lips, tongue, and teeth teased the delicate buds to painful hardness. I hurt, I ached, and this was going to stop.

Suddenly, I was primal, growling, writhing, and I wanted him. I heard their moans grow three fold, but I didn't care. All I saw and needed was my Maestro.

The blade moved with a practiced earnestness now, and my gown was gone, hanging as a limp rag against my bound ankles. An interesting sensation, I thought, the cool silk on my feet and ankles as he worked.

Gasps filled the theater as the audience saw me fully, and again they tried to leave. There was pounding on both sides of the house doors, but it seemed that he would only make it the dark and driving beat to his music.

His tongue fell to my secret places, stroking and teasing as his teeth nipped my nub. My growls filled the house now, and the audience too could not stop their need.

I felt the cackle, felt his pleasure long before I heard it, but what I did not expect were the words that followed.

"Release for me!" He cried fiercely, and the sound of that command may very well have filled the house for the rest of eternity.

My body obeyed before I knew what was happening, and with a sound that seemed to my ears like the keen of some strange and exotic creature, I fell weak with my release, and the curtain dropped.

When the curtain rose again, the ropes still held me, but their grip seemed to have loosened ever so slightly, and the remains of my gown had long since disappeared.

A piece of silk ran gently over my skin, and I sighed with the gentle pleasure it gave me. It reminded me of so many things, the sheets of my bed down below, the inner layers of Erik's cloak, and even so many of my own favored gowns, but even with all it's nostalgia, it somehow managed to still arouse me. He added a piece of fur then, and I arched happily into the duel sensations.

Purring, was I truly purring? What sort of spell had he put me under? I remembered though, even as a child having a tendency toward the feline which was all too evident when father combed out my golden tresses with his fingers.

Erik was amused. I could feel the smile in his work as he dangled a piece of one of his ropes over my skin, inviting me to play with it.

'I am not your spoiled Siamese, Maestro, and I will not play with string like some simple house cat,' I growled mentally, 'besides, the ropes are still holding me.'

As though in answer, my wrists were released, and I could no longer stop myself from batting at the rope. I mewed and laughed happily as I did, suddenly released from whatever pressures the world had given me. My only requirement at this moment in time was to be this simple feline, to mew, to play, to obey, and I loved nothing more.

He released my ankles then as well, and collared me with a kitten's collar bearing a small silver bell. I was free, and I could play as I would. I continued with the rope for some time, the concept of time being completely foreign to me in that world of simplicity, until I spotted a most substantial ball of red yarn rolling directly toward me. The rope was no longer important.

I pounced, attempting to catch and conquer it, but it appeared to have very different ideas. Every time I would get near enough, the angle changed by the slightest degree keeping me from ever catching the foul thing.

I hissed and growled. I wanted it terribly; it was mine. When I was near to the point of defeat, beginning to curl up and mew in frustration, it came to me nearly unraveled, and I began to play.

I needed in to it and deciding this wasn't enough, I pounced, pinning and batting at it with a renewed vigor. My mews echoing through the house, I wondered how the audience might react to this drastic change, decided I simply had no care, and moved on.

Quite contented with my task of showing this ball of yarn that it was no longer capable of defeating me, I yowled and hissed with displeasure as it slowly began to become my cage. The netlike structure held me suspended in the air, and I continued to yowl now furious that he had disrupted my bliss.

Soon enough though, the silk moved over me again, and I was docile, contented in my simple acceptance of whatever he wished to do to me. Ah, that the world could have remained as simple as those brief few moments I was feline.

Settled though I was, I was acutely aware when my skin became his organ, and the strings of my net became the strings of his harp. I could live this way forever, just laying, giving myself to be composed upon and played at his whims.

The ice was unexpected when it came, but immediately I loved it. It reminded me of him, cold, distant, unyielding, but capable of bringing a great and unexpected pleasure when it was surrendered to, and surrender I did.

Blissful was I, so blissful that I hardly noticed when the ice turned to drops of hot wax, and I suddenly became his willing canvas.

How badly I wanted to touch him as he worked, to stroke that beautiful face and tell him how much bliss I felt as my body became only what he wished it to be, but I still feared his exposure. Thus, there I lay, sighing and moaning in my contented bliss as the master's hands molded both the wax and myself. Soon, he finished, and the curtain dropped for the second time.

As soon as it was down, he was at my side, and I smiled up at him, tears of bliss shining it my eyes.

"I trust you are enjoying yourself la Daae," he purred, and his voice clearly said that he already knew the answer.

"Oui Maestro," I mewed, nuzzling his hands as he caressed me.

"Bon, trés bon."

He took a sharper blade from beneath his cloak, carefully pealing the wax away. When he finished, he passed his work to me, and I looked down upon a perfect likeness of the crest I knew so well.

"Maestro, will you destroy it now?" I asked, inwardly hoping that he would choose to allow me to keep it as a reminder instead.

"Non, it is yours, to forever remind you of this night."

I kissed him softly, the gratitude written all over my face.

"Come now ma voix," he coaxed, "The performance is not yet over, and the last act, it is by far the best."

"Oui Maestro," I answered quietly, prepared for whatever he wished to give me, and before I could finish my answer, he was gone once again.

The curtain rose for the final time, and unbound, unblemished, I waited though I knew not for what. Set pieces had been added, I noticed. A platform now stood in the center of the stage with a staircase on either side, and in the center of this a bed lavishly upholstered in silks, furs, and velvets.

The audience gasped suddenly, and I turned to see what it was that had caught their attention. When I saw him walk out through the flames, it was all I could do not to cry out his name or to faint for that matter. He was stunning, clothed fully in leather save for his velvet cloak, and I knew then just what act three of his opera would be.

'Don Juan Triumphant indeed.' I laughed inwardly.

We each moved gracefully up our staircase, he stalking me like his prey, and I fully prepared to be hunted and captured. I fell to my knees at the top of mine, waiting for him to approach me.

He approached slowly, circling and purring with approval, and I blushed at the intensity of his gaze.

"Brava, ma voix, Brava," he purred as he petted me with a level of possessiveness I had never felt from him previously.

"Merci Maestro," I answered demurely.

"Come now ma voix, if you will unclothe me leaving only my mask and cloak."

I stood removing his cloak only long enough to remove the rest of his clothing. My hands roved over his body and with every stroke I attempted to show him just how much I wanted him.

Transfixed, the audience watched, they wanted so badly to know what it was they were seeing and if this creature before them was the "Phantom" they had all been taught to fear, but not a soul in the house dared move. Even if they had wished to, I truly doubted they could have done so.

Having finished undressing him and replacing his cloak, I kissed him hard begging him to do what he would with me with my eyes.

"Show me your pleasure," he commanded softly as he let two of his fingers slip into my mouth.

I moaned low, knowing exactly what was expected of me and began to suck his fingers in earnest. As he moaned, feeling them as he seemed to feel his very member. My tongue found its way to the tips of each finger, teasing them as I would his shaft.

"Divan," he commanded in that same sort of soft tone as he removed his fingers from my mouth.

I lay gracefully down upon the bed, my legs crossed at the ankles awaiting his instructions. When he handed me the rod of glass he'd made for me, I let a slight cackle of my own brake from my lips. If that was the way it was to be, I would be sure he could not resist me for long.

I took the rod from his hands with one of my own, teasing my nub with one finger as I did so. Slowly inserting it into my entrance, I cried out at the contact.

"Slowly now," he commanded, and I obeyed without question, pulling the rod nearly out of me, and then thrusting it back in.

The truth was, I hated this, and I'd not yet found anything that made me quite so miserable. It was the way he preferred his music however, slow and pain steaking until he decided it would reach it's peak.

He was growling low in his throat, touching himself and giving his own pleasures as he watched me. He loved to watch and this prompted me to give him the best performance I could give.

"Faster now," he urged as his pleasure began to peak, and faster I moved.

I could tell my pleasure would not be in my own hands for much longer. My moans and growls accented by those of the audience were driving him to true ecstasy.

He took my wrist firmly in one hand, clearly telling me that he had no further use for the rod and thrust his erect and swollen member into me. The audience screamed as did I, having no better way to express my pleasure, and the symphony of passions began.

There was nothing slow, nothing gentle about this symphony. The storm raged within us both as hips ground together and the moans and growls of two blended into those of one. One, yes, the very thing we were becoming. The flames from which he had appeared still burned upon the stage, but I did not see them, all I saw were the flames we had created within us.

I felt the stirring within my center just as I heard the growls that showed me his nearness to the edge. Nipping his neck lightly, I encouraged him to allow me atop him, and he obliged.

Positioning myself over him at a perfect angle for his watching, I moved on his shaft with all the strength and speed I possessed. The release came over us both hard then, nector mingling with seed and growl with scream of pleasure. Such music as the world had never known and will never be known again.

The curtain fell, the house went black, and the audience was mysteriously now able to exit the theater. I did not know if they would remember the beauty and fear of that night, but if I truly knew my Erik, that performance would forever remain our secret memory.

End of part three


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer:

Erik and Christine do not belong to me, though, after this story, I'd have absolutely no problem belonging to Erik. Just putting that out there.

Author's Note:

I'm so sorry everyone that I've not had this up before now. I've had issues with my muses lately, and it's rather rendered me uncapable of writing. All's as it should be now though, and here's the last part.

I need to say this for any new readers and to make myself feel better. Warning, though this part isn't so much, the bulk of this story is very raw and sexual so don't read it if you can't handle it, please. Also, this part's very laced with power exchange so if that rubs you the wrong way, don't read it either.

Otherwise, read, review, and enjoy.

An Opera: The other Side of the Looking Glass

Part four:

Postlude

Two figures lay, so tightly curled around one another that it would have been difficult to determine where one form stopped and the other began. Both had slept a night filled with dreams of surrender and rapturous bliss, and still, though the rest of the world was bathed in light, they slept on.

It was Erik who stirred first, slowly attempting to remind himself where he lay. He rarely felt sleep and to have slept a full night, this confused him. Slowly, he remembered, and a smile of pleasure crossed his usually dark features. She had done it. She had surrendered to him and passed his test. Now, she would be his.

The lightest of sighs called him back from his musings, and he turned to see his young lover beginning to stretch.

Bon matin, ma chatenne," he purred as he tenderly stroked her face.

"Bon matin Maestro," She replied timidly.

The truth was, at this very moment even Christine was filled with the fear of the Phantom. She had done as he instructed and surrendered to him, but was he pleased? Would he keep her? The questions raced madly through her mind.

"You were beautiful last night ma voix!" he purred huskily as his tongue snaked across her bottom lip.

"Maestro, so soon?" she asked nervously.

"Non pet, non," he assured, "You had quite enough last night. I will not torture you so."

He rose, fetching a black silk dressing gown from the bedpost, slipped it over his shoulders, and beckoned her to follow him.

Following obediently, it became apparent to her just how hungry she was, and he seemed to agree that she would eat. Her Maestro was beautiful, in profile, she mused as she watched him make her tea and cut the fruit that would be her breakfast.

"You will eat my pet, and then you will dress. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise Maestro?" She questioned as she began to sip the tea he had passed her.

"Did you forget what I had promised you ma Christinette?"

Though she was shameful to admit it, she had forgotten. She remained so caught in the visions and rapture of what had happened between them, that anything he had told her before hand no longer seemed to matter.

She lowered her eyes, trying not to meet his with the hope that he would not notice her forgetfulness.

"You have forgotten, haven't you amourette?"

She nodded, to ashamed to speak, and he chuckled.

"'tis all the better for my plan then. Eat now, I have work to do to prepare. We will leave in two hours time."

He placed the plate of fruit before her on the table, turned, and left the room. She ate in silence, confused by this strange turn of events, but he did not seem angry, and thus, she allowed the silence to pass over her blissfully.

Her small meal finished, she cleaned the dishes in haste, anxious for whatever it was her Erik was planning for her.

As she entered her room, she gasped aloud. There, lying upon her bed, was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. It was a simple thing, made of only white lace and leaving very little to the imagination, and with it, was she seeing this properly, and with it a veil of the same white lace, and pearls of the highest quality to adorn her delicate neck and wrists.

She would look to him like a bride appearing before her groom, she pondered with the slightest bit of fear. She knew that she wished to be his, but for some unknown reason, the prospect of marriage seemed entirely wrong for the two of them. Still, quelling down her fears, she removed her own night shift, and made her way to the bath he had already drawn for her.

Her body had already been long in the water when Christine's mind slipped unbidden to the vision. There he was in all the glory that had shadowed him the night before. She saw him step from the shelter of the flames once more and realized that they seemed more natural than any cloak she had ever seen him ware. He was, most truly, a creature of fire and one never afraid to burn.

She moaned aloud at this thought, as she contemplated what making love to him upon those very flames would feel like. Would it burn so terribly? Did she want it to burn? Truly, she was no longer certain.

She felt the wetness come, felt it grow, and remembered his lessons about pleasuring herself. Slowly, fearing to injure herself after all she had done last night, she parted the folds of her secret places beginning to stroke inside…

She was not aware how much time had passed, only that sometime within it gentle strokes had become animalistic writhing, and then become release. She could hear something, a voice, but it seemed so far away from the trance in which she currently rested that it surely could not be worth noticing.

"Have you enjoyed yourself ma voix," he asked for the second or third time since he had found her, his voice laced with extreme amusement.

"M… Maestro!" She gasped breathlessly, starting bolt upright and nearly covering the tile with her bath water. "I… I am sorry. How… how long have you been there?"

He laughed, and she blushed scarlet. He had obviously been there quite some time.

"For as long as your music has been calling me," he replied cryptically, "Now, as lovely as that performance may have been, you are late. Come, you must dress."

"Oui Maestro," she replied, still not completely certain how she felt at being caught unaware.

She took his offered hand, allowing him to help her from the bath. He dried her, gracing her with an adoring smile like nothing she had ever seen, and led her silently back into the main room of her apartments.

"Maestro, qu'est-ce que c'est sa?" She asked, slightly confused about his behavior.

"C'est rien ma Christinette," he replied as he helped her into her gown.

A short time later, they looked down upon the lovely view of the city the opera's roof supplied for them. The sun was just setting, and while this, coupled with the fact they had only had breakfast two or three hours ago, utterly bewildered Christine, she was quite certain Erik was completely expecting it.

He ran his fingers lovingly through her hair as he slowly returned from his own musings.

"Kneel mon amourette," he instructed gently.

Her heart was racing a mile a minute as she knelt. What could he be doing? What was this, and why did she have the strangest feeling she really should have remembered something?

He circled her, that tawny gaze once again falling hard upon her, and she thought she would love nothing more than to run away and flinch from it. Sadly, she knew this was no longer an option.

"Are you a willing slave," he asked, and his voice carried a tone of danger and control she had never heard before.

She nodded, this strange tone rendering her unable to speak, more appropriately feeling as though she should not.

"Speak," he commanded making it very clear he would not be trifled with.

"I… I am a willing slave," she responded timidly, her head bowed and her eyes lowered.

"And who do you serve?" he asked, his tone and his gaze never wavering.

"Only you Maestro," she replied, this time surety coloring her words.

"then, with this admission, and you're willingness to serve me, I offer to you my collar."

She started in disbelief as he clasped the amethyst lace of the slave bracelet and anklet upon her, this was what she had forgotten, that if she passed his test and did as he bid her he would collar and keep her. She smiled radiantly, the tears streaming down her face. She wanted to rise, to cling to him and curl safely into his embrace, but she knew better than to do so before she was bidden.

"With this gift," he continued, "I offer to you my shelter, my protection, and my love. I offer to you the challenge of serving me, in exchange for the care that I shall give to you. Do you accept the terms of this arrangement?" He asked gently.

"I do Maestro."

He leaned down to her and lifted her into his arms.

"There is one more thing," he began gravely.

"Oui Maestro?"

"In this place, the marks I have put upon you have a great potential to be seen for what they are. Therefore, I have another gift for you."

He placed a plane gold band on the ring finger of her left hand, as he carried her back down to his world and opened a door to her that she had never seen, the door of his own private chambers, his sanctuary.

Fin


End file.
